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Ozymandias
'Twas a cold night, and the air was ever so fragile. For so long M, the child, who was a fan of things like Twin Peaks or Alan Wake, had chosen not to step outside as it was much too cold for his equally as fragile little body. He was quite young, and without a care in the world; except when occasionally he ever did disobey, or he didn't hear what was being said and therefore disobeyed, what with his selective hearing, he got quite the yelling of the lifetime. As his aging progressed he learned that he shouldn't ever disobey, and when he did ever now, it would be even worse. Sadly, it would be daily that this used to happen, and nearly daily nowadays. It was his fatal flaw. The inability to listen, despite his great hearing when he could actually focus. His blond, shaggy hair of not yet great length consumed some of his eyesight, yet still, he could see very well in addition. Still, at the present he was reading. He spoke very lightly under his breath, "When will I finally see?" It was currently in approximately the afternoon. The blinds were still, as was the air in the room, and yet the day before, he was only a bad child. Disobedient, yet blessed with his great intelligence, he was. Those things alone, that is; without much else to say; the door ajar; he having already stood, he looked as pale as always. He groaned with obvious exhaustion, glancing simply around his room. The empowering scent throughout the green kitchen of the dying air around him brought him to fall into slumber quite quickly in his great exhaustion, that which was equal to the previous exhaustion. So, so much time has passed. Four years now. He still doesn't learn, no matter how much he may try to do so. He's tried so hard, but failed, so much as he may try once more. There can be no escape from his ultimate fate, of course, but he still tries because he is blind, still. He cannot win, he cannot lose, he is ultimately stuck to eternity in a loop of whatever he may not see. Of course, that results in removing education. He will still never learn because he is constricted to his blindness, and now he is far too much gone to ever return like he asked to so long ago, to himself, still of a youthful position. He will never learn. He will never learn. He will continue this tirade until it ends. He will never learn. He will never learn, as he has never chosen to. He has begun his philosophy, and yet, he has yet to finish such. He will never finish anything. He will never be at the peace he longed to see in the end as the olden person he sees himself as. He will never learn. But, alas, he still tries. The blindest little child he is. He awoke the next morning to the smell of nothing, as always. He could, quite truly, never smell. Oh well, he mused himself, 'twas not much to trade for intelligence among my other gifts. I'd rather have great intelligence than great fitness and great sense of smell. But today, it would be a special day. It had finally occurred to him. He should battle this system. If to petition it is allowed, in a democracy such as this one, then I have every right to do these things and there can be nobody to stop me! He supposed, with his great mind of opportunity beyond reasonable measure for his own age, above average most uncertainly however much it may disappoint you as a reader. But no. No, he was not a protester in the slightest, simply too much sweet and innocent to take credit for the sludge one would usually see at this distance. Taken how you may already see such, despite no description of the bland world that we all share. These peacekeepers that we give to for the title of a home; without them, there would be anarchy in the streets, a great increase in murder, and whatever else you would expect to increase in an event such as this. The final thing he would ever say to deflect the thing he was about to do, however, gave him a slight chill as he fell into an abyss in that very moment. The life and colour of his messy room plunged into eternal darkness, leading to his sudden gasp, with an emotion as shock leading a fear. It was his other room, the one he spent most of his time in, typing things and watching things. It was good, still; he worried not for the times that it took to walk his way across the small home. In the darkness he plunged into, there remained not much to see; the room still remained the same, and in a totalitarian world such as his own, he felt no more than to stare at his surroundings. Of what a still characteristic! Alas, still nothing but the remainder and remnants he had oh so longed to; still, the song remains the same. "Heh." He emptily calls out to nobody. He watches, he waits. He waits for the never to remove the corruption. He is still one who is a "decayed elderly", one who remains unchanged. One he has permanently undone, who he recognizes as himself in a blurry reflection of the electronics that surrounded him that which he stared indefinitely at, he has yet to accept his fate. The breath of a memory wheezes through himself, and he remains still unchanged. Nothing will change the way he sees. He's blind, lost, and doesn't care. He hasn't decayed. He was never elderly. He lied to himself to keep himself sane. Not a very wise decision, he led himself to believe. He simply felt unique without the limitations of today's society; such things as this he dreaded coming to face with. It disgusted him, as much as he was repelled by the very thought of it. These savages; hooligans; they perturbed and tugged at his high horse, as in the back of his mind, he pondered if he was actually any more intelligent, or rather, less morally corrupt than themselves. Perhaps still they were all of an equal matter. But he still refused to believe it; he was just as weak, both mentally and physically, as all the rest. But he still, of course, refused to believe it. How immature of someone he saw himself as, to rather attempt to be any better. For truly, those who attempt to not pull themselves into the trends of late with advertence are the ones who are inferior to those who inadvertently attempt such. Rather, those who exclude and excuse themselves from the entirety of society itself appear to be the ones who grow the wisest, those who are isolated, those who are reclusive, those who chose the correct path in a world of destruction, a still constant, that which refused to leave, refuses to leave, will refuse to leave, and nobody will ever be able to change. Nobody, and nothing, will change life. Where are the only others who may notice the drastic irony of a world we so long ago declared to be lulled into a false sense of security, and now, we drown into the words of one who is unreliable as a narrator. He lived the same daily life, without change in a single breath; the same harmonic nature of one light inhale and one light exhale, typing away at a keyboard with stories like these to share with the world, that which he can enjoy as they are within the range of nothing more and nothing less than his own understanding. An incomplete human lay about the room, and still, he has allowed his hair to grow of length. More and more he appears as though he's a psychopath to the distant observer, however, he does not care. He simply continues to type without regard for the conscious fact that he was redundant all his life. The sound of typing, as if it's almost in a rage or optimism, protrudes the ambience of the darkened room, his gaze fixed upon the pixels that make up a single computer monitor. The inhales, the exhales; they continue still. But no. No. He refuses to just sit here and type away this frantic, miserable scrawling, begging for attention, he threw the keyboard and its holder back into the desk's comfort, and so everything went blank. He decide-- "I'm taking your story." He spoke simply to nobody. He was in an uncertain darkness, falling downwards with an admittedly calm posture and expression, a thousand yard stare into the nothing above him. In here it was finally certain. Certain of everything. And so; the children awoke that year. He had lost so many people and given up so many things, however, it seems that he has grown addicted to the things that he would call normal in the world. He still does not wake from his infinite dream of unfortunate events. "I'm taking your story, now, because I've had it with listening to you in the back of my head." "I'm taking your story because maybe I don't want to wake up." "I'm taking your story because I cling to things to stay alive." "I'm taking your story because I still can't let go." "When I was young, audience, I remember seeing the world as a vast lively place of amazing and vivid constructions, with which I could ponder anything. Alas, now, I sit in a tired glance at objects around me and, in an apathetic state of mind, as always, I am chilled on the inside. I have nothing. Nobody. I try to leave, but I return immediately afterwards. I am unable to get help, because the people I turn to can't provide actual help, because they're just like me. But they're blind. Oblivious to the fact that they have an addiction to the one thing we have in common." "The thing we have in common, is that we met. They starve to speak with one another still. Weak? Yes, we are." "They need to stop. You need to stop reading about me. But there are hundreds. Thousands out there who know of my existence. I am, very much, reality. I live within the same dimension that you exist in. You are, in great doubt... if you cannot consider this fact." "They're all dead, aren't they?" He awoke in a field of grass. The surroundings were trees upon trees upon yet more trees. The road in the distance seemed to twist unnaturally in a state of flaw. His nose and ears were bleeding violently, as well as his mouth; his hands covered in his own blood in addition. He felt light-headed, perhaps even weaker than he would normally, but the road does not end. It never ends. Perhaps it was a metaphor, but, now is not the time for considering the possible reality of a figure of speech, he concluded very quickly, even more confused about the blood pouring from his head and how blurry and shaken his vision was. He got up after falling over, limping in a pained manner towards something in the obvious distance that he could see after getting himself lost in the woods. The structure found itself to be a home, that which looked quite run down from the distance at which he was observing it. He stumbled towards it, knocking very lightly on the door due to his injury of unknown origin. It was not for a few minutes until he realized the door was slightly ajar; then he looked down, forcing through the door in an obvious limp. The room was empty; abandoned, other than his own presence and the sounds of his own suffering. So he spilled a bit of blood and stopped moving eventually, just letting himself fall to the floor and still there; however much he knew he would not die anyways, this being a simple illusion of himself that he had willingly lead himself into. Of course, his breath was not uneasy whatsoever, and he felt yet no pain. A small breath and quiver escaped him, and, he stood, perfectly fine then. He was okay. Then, still; no longer visible were the previously mentioned injuries. His flesh curled, with emptiness and a silent cackle; he, hunched over, felt the heaviness of his eyes and his chronic general pain increased very slowly, but it was of no concern to him anymore. He'd grown not accustomed to it, in fact, without moving it very, very slowly worsened. A mixture of playing instruments, typing repeatedly on a keyboard, it'd given him quite the carpel tunnel and what he presumed was rheumatoid arthritis, and eventually tendinitis in the elbows, however much he cared not for himself anymore. He'd simply let go a long time ago. He didn't care anymore. So it would appear, he was in a state of constant unhappiness since he was finally found alone. Or, at least he found himself alone. It was good, he had said to himself in the final days. His eyes were still heavy in his gruesome, unstylistic trudge towards nothing else but unending pain. He very slowly escalated the stairs, hallways going left and right that seemed to fade into whiteness, but it was one door that caught his attention at the very end of the hall before everything completely faded to white. Among doors with various carvings within them, mostly of names, this single one caught his attention as it was nameless. The door was completely shut, but he twisted the doorknob and found it was not locked whatsoever. He tried a different door, but found it was locked. A response gone unheard. He tried every door in sight but found that they were all locked and there was no response from any of them, and so he decided to break through one of the doors and although he succeeded in breaking on through (to the other side), he found that there was nobody in the room except for the light playing music throughout the room, forming an ambience he had yet to experience. But he closely recognized the track. It was one of his own, a random mashing of chords and notes upon an atonal electric guitar, intertwined with himself speaking in a rather excited voice (very uncharacteristic of himself), but he found it entirely unsurprising that his own free improvisation would be in what he presumed was a lucid dream that which he did not have full control over. He sat on the bed in the room, laying back in the bed; a noise of a troubling and awakening voice almost gave him a heart attack, but it was one that sounded rather...familiar, however, in what he considered the worst way. Other than these two instruments there was yet nothing more than the silence. Finding the radio in the corner, he stopped it, removing the cassette tape and placing it back inside of its case. This was recorded less than a year ago, but still, it haunted him. It haunted him more than any of his other possessions. And, after all, he knew where he was. This was a memory from another person. He made these songs for them. He knew all of these names. And who the uncarved door belonged to; 'twas them. The one he left behind, the one he'd lost, the one who he had no reason to despise yet did anyways; he knew though. He knew they were gone too. Everyone was gone; at least, everyone else who remained sensible was long dead. Not literally dead, but they'd just vanished one day and he never saw them again. Gone without a trace or a warning; this one he clung to for so long, that he knew they had grown so long ago exhausted of his own nonsense. So he tried to part; alas, nothing. Seven times he made the same mistake. He covered his face, sitting down on the bed once again. It was such an uncomfortable and vivid experience to be here. But he said no more. He was never truly here. But he recognized it as a place he'd been in before. It was in no sense a feeling of déjà vu, but a place he knew. Not in the slightest a place that simply seemed familiar. He had known this place for three years now. He laid back down, resting temporarily even if this unsurprisingly completion of a whole circle being made; a shocking revelation, despite itself being a fraud within itself, had not affected him in the slightest. It was not a place he had seen, rather, it was a place he only knew but one he could not see. He had never physically been here, but he remembered imagining it. But this was not an exploration throughout his own memory. This was a physical exploration of something that was not from his own imagination, however. He had always known this place. It was traumatizing, because of such a presence he was completely incapable of feeling. His own presence, alongside the hands on both of his shoulders. He turned, to find nobody. He found it yet more unsurprising. He placed the cassette tape back into the player, this time allowing it to play its B-side, a 47 minute jam session with a drum machine, electric guitar and improvised vocals, himself leaving the room to allow it to play whilst he was outside of the room. He forced his way through all of the doors, finding yet nothing more of interest, only the unlocked door remaining in front of himself. It was then that he paused in front of it. A great presence once again resurfaced, though it was only of fear of an unknown source. Yet, he knew for a fact that there was nobody but himself here. This place was long abandoned, but he knew this place's purpose. Its remainder. This beautiful place; he disapproved of it. He had always known what it was for, since it was first brought up to him, and yet, he was unaware of what was behind the door now. He knew. He knew who this belonged to. He recognized this door. He completely and totally recognized it, but that was the reason he was afraid to open it; in case they were okay, he didn't want to open it. He placed his warm hand upon the unbelievably cold doorknob, that which stung due to its nature against itself; and with a wind, he quickly forced it open with his fear suddenly swallowed. There was a moment of it just remaining ajar, though he could clearly see through the little crack a bloody mess along the wall, to which he once more realized that there was yet another track playing in this room. It was an ambient minimalist work, entitled Curtains by Aphex Twin. He could feel his heart in the back of his throat, and he once more pushed it completely open to see exactly what he dreaded. There it was. A decaying skeleton, the room encased in dust and spider webs, and it flooded back, with a fearful regret he fell forwards, his expression one of neither shock nor hysteric sadness upon his shadowed sorrow, yet one that remained to be neutral. He felt not sad in the slightest, simply void of emotion and all else there was to feel; he thought of nothing. His mind drained from his ears, and then he was dead, a gunshot wound suddenly, like a cannonball through the skull and provided his skull fragments to the ground below and he fell. He was not remembered afterwards. Yet, his unbearable music continued; like yet another step in the snow forwards, as the snow fell and his corpse rotted over theirs, a final joining in death and no afterlife, no afterlife, no afterlife... thus far, there had been no proof of such and M remained atheist throughout his entire life. More so, he felt no longer that a God existed, and he had evolved from these monkeys, that which he felt was no longer, they would eventually die as would the human race and all possible alien lifeforms, reflecting the eventual heat death of the universe, leaving nothing more behind. The sun shined, the trees died, the snow fell, the trees revived themselves, and this cycle continued for many years, the Earth dying slowly as the oceans began to cover the ground more and yet more, the waves of global warming slowly consuming all who dared to approach the end of the time that this race had left. A majority of them had died, and unsurprisingly, everyone was dying, even if albeit a slow progression into a downfall. His life flashed before his eyes as he died. The first memories, the first friend he ever made, his obsessions with art and previously fashion, and death came to him in the form of a parade, and he felt unhappy in the slightest sense that he couldn't stay to make things right. And yet, still, the music ceased; there was silence, and the sound of his death. The trauma to the skull and brain left him damaged beyond repair, literally now and metaphorically before such, his mouth gaping as he died, his hands twitching with absolutely nothing left as the blood drained from his skull and little bits and of brain matter, skull fragments, and in addition his own cerebrospinal fluids. He could feel nothing more; his sight faded, and he was at last deceased. His flesh paled along the way. The maggots later began to crawl throughout their host's skull, then afterwards trailing through his body, eating away at his flesh and still organs. Flies flew overhead, a feast at last, and there was nothing much else to see later except his decaying bones upon other decaying bones, after years and years of this repeated turn, a rising of the sun, a rising of the moon, the hot days, the leaves falling, the snow falling, the trees growing, the cycle continued for a very long amount of time. He remained on the ground. And so, it was peaceful as this reality perished. No backlash, a simple death of the universe from heat. And in its place, one was present. One single person. And in its place, a voice yelled, "Let there be light!" And there was light-- Ω SLCAMTH?F AM I THE FOURTH IN RELICS? This is part of the (non-canon) narrative of Nowhere in Forever < Previous Installment | Next Installment > Category:Narrative Category:Creepypasta stories Category:Unfinished